  When sorrow hath outsoar’d our nature’s clime, Leaving it far remote &, like a strong Eagle lone brooding on her peak sublime, Graspeth in solitude her towering wrong; & no more hankereth for petty prey Nor bleeding victim wherewithal to still Her hunger of desolate passion, but thus aye Sitteth, devour’d by her own vital ill, Motionless, nerveless, where for her no sound Of life is, only the wind’s alien Moan that meandereth sleeplessly around The promontory,—what saviour can then Help helpless sorrow? What shall break that spell Of icy death in life, that shackling Hell?
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